We begin with Aristotle. I was flinging the frisbee for Hamish and
noted five or six swallows. The web attributes, “One swallow does not a summer
make” to Aristotle. It does not say what five or six do make. A fuller
measure of happiness possibly?
Flowers seem to be engaged on a similar project to the birds’. But on
the walk home it occurred to me that flowers hereabouts have all been bred to
over-act; there’s little of film acting about them, the school of, “Just lift
and eyebrow and the camera will catch it.” It’s as if they’re all worried they
might not pass the audition. SHOUTING rhododendrons!
Sorry if that was too loud; i’s been kind of quiet inside our house. I
believe the amplifiers have picked up a virus. I suppose it’s like an ailment
jumping species from swine or poultry to humans. Possibly someone’s laptop
passed too close? Both the amplifier in the kitchen and the one under the
television have developed a marked bias towards the left channel—sound comes
from that speaker just fine. The other speakers? Not a lot. Lke someone not
fluent in how conversation goes, at unpredictable moments they cut in. I’ve
checked all connections. No obvious problem there, so… virus?
I thought to ask Mimo and her comrades whether the color of their
feathers might become an issue in her presidential campaign. Appenzeller is
black, with hints of green, Pecorino is mottled black and white, Mimo’s
coloring is between umber and orange. They took the opportunity to do
something I’ve not heard them do till now, reflect on the deaths of the others.
Mimo, “Cheddar might have helped us with yellow ones, though I doubt she would
have contributed greatly to the intellectual thrust of my candidacy.”
Me, “It has an intellectual thrust?”
Mimo chose to ignore the jibe, “And Rocky would reinforce Pecorino’s strength
with chickens of mottled aspect. But I can’t see that Wensleydale’s white
feathers would help anyone. I mean no one can help being white but it’s not an
attractive color is it? White? Sorry god.”
Pecorino, “He’s not white. Predominantly a kind of reddish pink."
Appenzeller, “And if you’re talking about threats to the intellectual thrust of
the campaign…Wenslydale is not a name to bring up.”
Pecorino, “Let us not speak ill of the d-e-a-d.”
Me, “So you’ve concluded that all three are dead?”
Pecorino, impatient with my ignorance, “It stands for Disappeared, Even After
Darks.”
Mimo, “It’s a known fact that when you hop the fence you have to remember to
return before dark, or at minimum, on the third day. Otherwise things
become…difficult…theologically speaking.”
Me, “The campaign will have a theological aspect too?”
Pecorino, “We comrades are in complete agreement that without a theological
element Mimo is unlikely ever to become president of the United States of
America.”
Appenzeller, “Results from the bush telegraph…”
Pecorino, “…that’s what we call information from other birds…”
Me, “Swifts?”
Pecorino, “What’s a swift?”
Me, “They eat flies.”
Pecorino, “You mean a Guendoozie.”
Me, “Do I?”
Pecorino, “Light colored belly, flies very quickly?”
Me, “One might even call them ‘swift’?”
“Guendoozie.” Appenzeller pulled up to full height, “Results…from the
telegraph confirm…”
Mimo, “Ontologically speaking…”
Appenzeller was caught between not wanting to show she had no idea what Mimo
meant by “ontological” and delivering message of the bush telegraph in an
authoritative manner, “Do gods know the expression, ‘going for a song?’”
Me. “We have that expression. It means going cheaply.”
Appenzeller, “It does? How strange.”
Me, “And your version means?”
Pecorino, “Reaching for the highest level of value. If you’re going for a song
you’re…”
Appenzeller, “…hoping to join a winning conversation. Our results show that
for Mimo to join the winning conversation there must be a theological aspect to
her campaign.”
“Fortunately,” said Mimo, “it’s Beltane, when song hereabouts is at its loudest
and strongest; we have absolute confidence that the ancient spirit of Spring
will work in our favor.”
Me, “In an election to be held one year from November?”
If a chickens could hold their heads in their hands while running, you’d have
the picture of their reaction. Three versions of Munch’s, “The Scream.”
“Whaaaaaaaaat?"
I repeated, “The election is one year from November.”
Mimo looked crestfallen, “That’s a lifetime away.”
I agreed, “Could be.”
Pecorino, “We may have to go into closed session on this one.”
Appenzeller, “To evaluate the theological aspects.”
Mimo, “Swiftly.”
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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